


I'd Like to Believe

by bluejorts



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: (canon standard but i did what idiot cage couldnt and made hank a hot smoker), Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alien Abduction, Alien gore, Aliens, Alternative Universe - FBI, Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Human Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Later chapters will be NSFW, M/M, Mild Gore, Slow Burn, Smoking, Trans Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Trans Male Character, this IS NOT a crossover its just an au and it doesnt follow the actual plot of the xfiles, this is gonna be long, x files au, x-files, yeah man im posting this ive been working on this bad boy for a While
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-12
Updated: 2018-12-13
Packaged: 2019-07-29 22:17:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16273490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluejorts/pseuds/bluejorts
Summary: On October 10th 1985, Hank Anderson was a happy man; a successful single father on a career path. On October 11th, Hank Anderson was alone.Connor knew him on neither of these days.





	1. Part One - Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> ehehehehehe ive been workin on this fuckin thing for a good while and im super happy w it (i say this, i rewrote the first paragraph five times and my old creative writing teacher is fucking quaking)
> 
> im gonna put content warnings at the beginning of each chapter, these will be more things for people to prepare for (you'll see what i mean if you scroll to the bottom of this note)! common triggers will be in the tags, though aside from violence there will probably not be many of those! i'm also planning on updating every fortnight, and thatll definitely be so for the first three chapters but i do have stuff that might get in the way of that so oops!! 
> 
> follow me on twitter @robotwunk (if you're over 18) if you wanna hear me talk abt dumb dbh stuff and see my DUMB cosplay
> 
> CONTENT WARNINGS:  
> \- mentions of child abduction and harm to children  
> \- discussion of dead bodies  
> \- very mild body horror (not of main characters)  
> \- shouting

Connor had known about Agent Hank Anderson for years.

It was all stories, all gossip through his time at the FBI Academy. Anderson’s son had gone missing ten years ago, and he was stuck on it. He’d become a recluse, locked away in amongst the archive rooms where nobody bothered to go. An alcoholic with a temper who worked on cases that had been shut for years - or cases nobody else wanted. He apparently believed his son had been abducted by aliens, though Connor wasn’t sure whether he believed anyone could think that. At the Academy he’d heard it all; speculation that the kid had died naturally and Anderson was mad with grief, suggestions that the boy ran away from an already neglectful man, and even whispers of murder. It hadn’t piqued his interest then, but now, stood outside the a door marked with a handwritten ‘H. ANDERSON’, everything he’d heard played through his head. 

He opened the door.

The room inside was less an office than the site where an office may have stood before a hurricane swept through. There were files strewn about the three desks in the room, stacks of paper on the floor leaning precariously into the walkway between tables. On the desk furthest from them, Connor could see a head of grey hair poking out from behind paperwork. The man it belonged to was fast asleep. 

“Hank, get the fuck up.” Jeffrey Fowler - supervisor to this wing, and Connor’s reluctant tour guide of the lower levels - gave Connor an apologetic smile. “Your new partner is here.”

“Mmph? Part- what?” Anderson sat up with a start, looking around with unsteady blue eyes that quickly turned to steel on Connor, rigid and confused under low brows. “My  _ what _ ?” 

“Partner, Hank. Jesus Christ.”

“I thought we’d agreed trying to get any poor fuck to work with me wasn’t worth it any more.”

“We had. And I  _ told you  _ about this. Apparently this guy was looking for a challenge.”

Technically, there was truth in those words. Connor's move had been because he felt his talents were wasted on open-shut cases like those he’d been getting. But he’d never said he was looking for a  _ challenge _ and he’d never expected to be sent to work  _ here _ .

Hank Anderson was where unexplainable cases came to die. The files in his drawers were labeled ‘X’ for good reason: they were impossible, or lacked evidence, or it had been decided not to investigate them further. They were as unwanted as Anderson, and not the type of challenge Connor enjoyed.

“Shit, alright. Guess you pissed off some of the big guys, huh?” Anderson snorted, crossing his arms and regarding Connor. “Welcome to the club.”

“I’m gonna leave you two to get, uh, acquainted? Or whatever the fuck. Neither of you are my problem right now. Have fun!” And Fowler was headed out the door before Connor could say goodbye or beg to leave with him. 

“Pick a desk.” Anderson gestured towards the tables that weren’t currently occupied by him. Tables still heavily populated by files and notes. ”But, uh, don’t move anything.”

Connor tried not to sigh as he placed his bag onto the closest table, carefully not shifting anything under it. 

“Wait, hold on. Shit.” Anderson stood up with a huff and lumbered over. He was a big guy, broad shouldered and taller even than Connor (and Connor stood at a very reasonable six foot), and so watching him handle the files on the desk softly and carefully probably should have had a kind of comedy to it, but Connor was too annoyed to be amused. Little by little the irritation and outright anger he'd been holding back were seeping to the forefront. Once Anderson had cleared the table and apparently squared away his files Connor sat down without thanking him, pulling a notebook and pens from his satchel and organising them on the desk. 

“You’re welcome then.” Anderson muttered. “Gonna introduce yourself to me?”

Connor turned to watch as Anderson sat back down, eyeing as a pile of papers wobbled dangerously next to his chair as he pulled it in. 

“My name is Connor. I already know who you are.” 

“Got a last name there, Connor?”

Connor gave a curt smile in return to the amused one Anderson was directing at him. “No.”

“Oh really? Weird.” Connor didn’t respond. Of course, he  _ did  _ have a last name, whether he liked it or not. “Well then, Connor Lastname, I’ll cut to the chase. You don’t wanna fuckin’ be here. I don’t  _ really  _ want you here. But if you’ve pissed someone off then you’re for sure stuck with me, so get that stick outta your ass and get used to talking.”

Connor processed for a moment. “Excuse me?”

“I can feel the ‘leave me the fuck alone’ vibes you’re giving off from over here, man. Take it out and accept that you’re working with me.”

“I don’t quite understand what you mean.”

“What I mean is that you think you’re better than this, right? And because of that you’re gonna spend the whole day fussing over jack shit at that desk when you could - and  _ should  _ be helping me out. You’re my new partner.”

Connor felt a swell of anger and rose with it, stalking over to Anderson’s desk and leaning over, hands in the centre and face inches away from Anderson’s.

“I don’t  _ think  _ that I’m better than this, Agent Anderson. I  _ know  _ I am. I have two PhDs, I’ve solved cases in less than a day. I’m one of the best agents on my entire fucking force. I don’t deserve to be stuck with some idiot who thinks that  _ aliens  _ are behind all of the cases he gets.” To emphasise his point, he jabbed at the pile of papers by Anderson's chair with his foot, sending them in a scattering bloom over the floor. He’d leant even closer in his seething, and could feel the heat of Anderson’s breath hit his face in a wave of stale liquor and sleep.

Anderson didn’t look even remotely phased, his arms were crossed over his chest and his brows were raised, in a gesture of ‘can I speak now?’

“Alright, so you’re talking. Great.” 

Connor blinked and leaned back further. “What?”

“This is better than you sulking half way across the room.” 

“That's just - fucking  _ unbelievable _ .” Connor pushed away from the table and made a beeline out of the door and towards Fowler’s office. Anderson didn't make any verbal protest as he left.

Fowler didn't seem surprised in the slightest.

“That was quick.” He stated. “Most people make it at least a day.”

“I'm not working with him.”

“You are.” 

“I'm not! I  _ won't _ ! This is a joke! I get it, I shouldn't have asked for a reassignment, I was fine where I was. Just send me back! I'm not going to get anywhere stuck with him.” 

“Listen, Connor. Hank is a good guy.” Fowler held his hands out in a placating motion. Of  _ course  _ he was on first name terms with the man. “His methods might be, uh, unorthodox - and he might not always officially bring in the offender - but he solves things. Cases he’s been on? Serial killers with no description to speak of? After he’s done his digging there’s never another murder.”

“Oh yeah, because  _ aliens  _ did it.”

“I don’t know about aliens. But I do know that you two will make a good team. You just need to accept that you’re working with him.”

“Will accepting my place with him get me back to my actual department any quicker?” Connor crossed his arms. 

“Not any quicker than being a stubborn shit will.” Fowler sighed. “Look. I didn’t want to pass this on because I think it’s a pile of horse shit, but when you make your reports the - people higher up want to hear everything about Anderson’s methods. They want to know exactly what he thinks, all his… irregularities.”

The cogs turned and clicked into place with a satisfying realisation in Connor’s head. “They want me to debunk him.”

Fowler’s hands closed into loose fists, one of which he raised to point at Connor. “Not officially. But you gotta listen to me, Connor. Hank helps people. Is your pride more important than his cases?”

Connor didn’t bother answering. This would be easy, he supposed, so long as he played along with Anderson’s ideas. So long as he lasted.

He made his way back down to Anderson’s office (Anderson’s and  _ his _ now, he supposed) with more of a spring in his step, and stopped a moment outside the door to don the facade of a kicked puppy. 

Anderson evidently saw through it within seconds of him walking in. 

“Aha. Thought so.” He hummed, still leaning back obnoxiously in his chair, only two legs on the ground. “They’re trying to shut me down, aren’t they?”

Connor frowned. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He lied smoothly, crossing his arms and standing in place. “I was just trying to get reassigned my old position, which I  _ can’t.” _

“No, it makes sense. I got too close to some confidential shit, and they sent you in here to cut me off.” 

“The world doesn’t revolve around you, Agent Anderson.” Connor uncrossed his arms and sat on his desk impatiently. “Do you have a case for me to look at?”

“Oh now I  _ know _ that’s why the bastards sent you here.” Anderson snorted, leaning forward again and letting the front two feet of his chair hit the floor with a loud snap that Connor didn’t react to. “But you know what? I’ll play along. Might be fuckin’ fun. Maybe someone in this establishment will actually fucking listen to me.”

“You have an awful mouth on you, Agent.”

“Come wash it out with soap then, _ Connor _ .” 

Connor glared at him, but declined to take the bait. He watched Anderson roll his eyes and dig through the papers on his desk until he’d uncovered one particular file. A large, black ‘X’ shouted from the corner. He threw it onto the desk next to Connor, where it slid over to the edge and threatened to fall before Connor firmly slapped his hand down onto it. 

“Knock yourself out.” Anderson said. “Tell me when you’ve looked it over and I’ll catch you up on what I’ve found out. ‘Cause what’s in there is surface level.” 

Connor slid from sitting on the table into his chair. It was hard plastic, not exactly comfortable, and he felt a bitter frustration as he pulled it in. He just had to file good reports, then Anderson would be out and he’d be back where he was supposed to be. Back in a chair that didn’t scrape his spine every time he moved. That was it. 

He opened the document and was immediately faced with the body of a young man. Alan Walner, the file said. Aged nineteen. He was found lying on his side in the middle of a soccer field in Manton, Michigan. He lived in Cadillac, a four hour walk away. The person who found him - the janitor - had initially thought he was asleep, since he was wearing pyjamas and the position he was in was close to fetal. But his eyes were open, and he was stone cold. The local coroner had placed the time of death at around midnight. 

But there was something weird about the images, Connor noticed. Even in the photos taken post-autopsy Walner’s eyes were open.

He stood up, file open, and dropped it onto Anderson’s desk. 

“Guessing you read it then?” Anderson grunted. 

“Why didn’t they shut his eyes before the autopsy?”

Anderson looked up at Connor with a sinister grin. “I knew you’d be a smart one. They did.”

“Then why are his eyes open, Anderson?”

“The lids ripped.”

“How?”

“Too much strain on the muscles keeping ‘em closed, apparently.”

Connor sat on Anderson’s desk now, ignoring the paper shifting under him when he did. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“It doesn’t, does it?” Anderson shrugged. “Guess they’re gonna want someone with a medical degree, right?”

Connor nodded, humming affirmation that caught in his throat. “How did you know about that?”

“You really think Fowler would give me no warning that I was getting a new partner? He told me about you when they first decided to transfer you. I just forgot it was actually happening - and honestly I thought it was just a joke.” 

“So you know all about me?”

“Oh, I do.” Anderson snorted. “And damn if you aren’t fuckin’ boring.”

Connor clenched his fists. “You know, the more you open your mouth the more tempted I am to just punch you and quit.”

“Oh I know that’s bullshit.” Anderson sneered at him. “You were climbing the ladder, Connor. Pretty fast, too. Got a little ahead of yourself when you started making requests though. That’s not gonna earn you any favours. Now you're stuck down here, but no matter how much you hate this, you’re not gonna quit.”

“Just tell me about the case, Anderson.” Connor jabbed the table with his finger. “His eyes.”

“Alright, alright.” Anderson smirked, and Connor really did want to punch it off of him. “So his eyes. Usually if they’ve got a case where the eyes just won’t close - especially if they’re fuckin’ creepy like with this kid - the coroner will shove some glue in there to keep them shut.”

“Creepy?”

“I’m getting there. They glue the eyes together and what do you know? They turn around for a second and they rip. Straight up, skin tears and the kid’s staring off at nothing again. The eyelids rolled back like a fuckin’ shutter.” 

“A shutter?”

“That’s what they’re saying.”

“Aren’t there any pictures?”

“They couldn’t get any.”

Connor rubbed his temple, frowning. “What do you mean?”

Anderson leaned over the desk and grabbed a mostly empty photograph wallet to hand to Connor. Some of the images seemed similar to those on file, although they were clearly the original copies, void of the extra layer of grittiness that the printed versions had. But then some of them were wildly different. In any picture taken (by Connor’s estimate) less than two feet away from the corpse’s face the eyes were whited out. 

“Were these tampered with?”

“Nope. And that’s not the creepy part either. From what the coroner says, kid has no irises. None.”

Connor’s frown deepened. He pulled the file back out from under Hank’s hand and examined it. “But how? His eyes are green. It’s documented here.”

“Mm, that’s what  _ that  _ may say, but the unofficial first report says something else.” Another file was handed to Connor. His first report on Anderson would be that he was disorganised, all of this could (should) be filed together neatly and not left to be coffee stained on a desk. “Third page in there.”

Connor pulled it out and read aloud. “Initial inspection of body reveals two abnormalities; three teeth cracked due to extreme stress or high voltage, and complete loss of melanin in the eyes. Upon seeing the victim’s eyes most witnesses have said that they feel at a loss. They feel like nothing they do will amount to anything. I have experienced this. While I was in the room with the body I felt like there was no way I could do my job. I just couldn’t continue.” 

He looked to Anderson doubtfully. “This man is a police coroner?”

“Read that one out.” Anderson pointed to the other file.

Connor complied. “Initial inspection of body shows cracks in three teeth due to either extreme stress or high voltage and a disruption of melanin in both eyes. The - he just moves on to talk about something else.”

“Yeah. Censorship at its finest.”

“Which could well be because he was discussing things irrelevant to his  _ job _ .” Connor pointed out. Anderson just shrugged. “And regardless, how did you get the old files?”

“Once something’s an X-file, it opens some doors.” Another shrug. 

“This still doesn’t explain the pictures. A flash at the wrong time, maybe?”

“Nope, the flash is fine. And it’s only the eyes.”

“Some kind of a glare as a result of the lack of melanin?”

Hank pursed his lips before he responded. “But where are his pupils?”

“The glare prevents them from being visible? Overexposure on purpose maybe? Maybe someone  _ is _ attempting to sabotage these.”

“That could explain the other thing.” Anderson nodded.

“What other thing?” 

“Any photo taken too close to the eyes was destroyed. The film combusted in the camera apparently before anyone could fuckin’ get to it.” 

Connor rubbed his temple again. “Of course. You know, you nearly had me there. I nearly thought that this was an actual case.”

“It  _ is _ an actual case.”

“You went a little overboard there with the ‘combustion’.” Connor slid off of the table, taking the files in his hand and walking with them back over to the desk he’d claimed. “Just tell me if you have a real case.”

Anderson snorted. “I do have a real case, and it’s that one. Weren’t you looking for something that would be a little harder to solve?”

Connor dropped the files heavily and turned to glare at Anderson, the flame of anger that had been quelled by looking at the ‘case’ flickering back to life. 

Anderson continued. “If this is too hard for you, that’s fine. I have two tickets on a plane to Cadillac tomorrow morning, take one or don’t. It's not my job on the line.”

“You’re just messing with me. This is because you think I’m here to report on you, right? You’re setting us up for failure on a fake case because you think that'll somehow get you somewhere?” 

Anderson rolled his eyes. “No. I’m investigating this case because it’s my  _ job _ . If you want to do  _ your  _ fuckin’ job, you should come with me.”

Connor took a deep breath to stop from simply yelling ‘fuck off’ and punching Anderson in his dumb smug face.

“Fine. What time is the fucking plane.”


	2. Part One - Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a 20 a4 page chapter oops! coming to u from london mcm comic con where im doign a connor cosplay and handing out stickers (im @robotwunk on twitter if u want more abt that)
> 
> also im making this HEAVY nineties vibes and also like real dumb explanations for things bc i think its only fair
> 
> content warnings:  
> \- food  
> \- shouting  
> \- gore (autopsy)  
> \- probably very dumb descriptions of procedure im so sorry (got told off for saying morgue instead of lab for the autopsy as im posting this lads. called out by my own conmates)

_Initial report: SA Hank Anderson. May 12th 1995. Filed: SA Connor [REDACTED]_

_This report is being written on the evening of my first encounter with Special Agent Anderson. I found him to be much as he has been described; brash and irrational. He sought to elicit a response from me in any way possible and appeared pleased when I became angry. He is paranoid and intelligent, immediately assuming that I was sent to report on him, which I did not confirm. I am to assist him with a ‘case’ tomorrow, though I assume this to be a hoax._

_It's safe to say that my personal relationship with Anderson is progressing in a negative direction. And that I will be doing my utmost to get this ‘over and done with’, as it were._

The flight was at nine AM. And Anderson was late. Connor sat by the gate, bag by his side, tapping his fingers against his knee and fuming into his cellphone.

“The plane boards in ten minutes! I honestly think he set this up as a wild goose chase, just to play around with me. This is all a joke to him!”

“ _You really landed yourself with something, didn't you?_ ” Markus whistled lowly, voice crackling through the speakers.

“I should have never said anything, just accepted the hand I was dealt.”

“ _But that doesn't get anyone anywhere, does it_?”

“No, but apparently this is where words get you.” He whined slightly and almost faltered in his perfect posture. “I almost miss dealing with _Reed_ . It's only been a _day_ and I want to throttle this man.”

“ _Try to behave, Connor. I don't want to be seeing you_ or Anderson _in the ER any time soon_.”

“I was more thinking I'd send him out in a body bag.” Connor grumbled. Markus chuckled at that. At least one of them was amused.

“Now that sounds illegal, Agent Connor.” A gruff, tired voice sounded in his other ear.

Connor wanted very much to flick his arm back and sock Anderson on the nose, but he resisted.

“He just arrived. And with eight minutes to spare.”

“ _Was that him? He has a nice voice._ ” Trust Markus to find something good about everyone. “ _I’ll take you out to dinner when you get back. Bye, Connor.”_

“As long as there'll be drinks. I have a feeling I'm gonna need one. See you later.” He hung the phone up and clipped it into the case in his bag.

“Dinner, huh? ‘M I invited?”

“Why are you late?” Connor purposefully didn’t watch as Anderson stepped onto the bench and over to sit down beside him.

“Overslept.”

“Maybe in the future you should consider an alarm clock.”

“Oh, I considered one. Had a bit too much fun last night, fell asleep in my living room. Think my alarm woke me up, but it was too far away for me to give a shit ‘n I just fell back asleep.”

Connor caught his eye in a cold glare. “Maybe you should _consider_ not drinking when you have a plane to catch the next day.”

Anderson waved that idea away. “Maybe.” He grunted.

Connor pursed his lips. Evidently Anderson hadn’t planned on being any more palatable today. They didn’t so much as look at each other for the next few minutes as they waited to board, and once they were aboard the plane Connor had hoped to continue that. But the moment the seatbelt sign was off Anderson pulled down the both of their tray tables and dumped a mess of old newspaper articles onto Connor’s.

“I want you to look at these.” He instructed, sounding for all the world like he thought he was Connor’s fucking boss.

Connor flicked through them, scanning the headlines. “‘Abduction in Michigan’, ‘Washup in Wexford County’, ‘Flying Saucer Spotted over Cadillac Lake’ - What is all of this?”

“History.”

“No.” Connor rubbed his temple. “It’s conspiracy theories. I was under the impression that you were a serious agent, Anderson.” Sarcasm bit through his words.

“Read the goddamn articles, Connor. Don’t get snarky with me.”

Connor, despite himself, read the articles. If nothing else, it gave him something to do for the start of the hour and a half flight. Each was exactly as hyped up and paranoid as he was expecting, although as he worked his way through the ten that Anderson had given him he started spotting patterns. Things that maybe seemed connected, no matter how improbable they were. But that could have just been his brain getting to him, or the sheer proximity of his new UFO nut partner.

Once he finished (only ten minutes into the flight, damn it), he dumped them on top of the file that Anderson was scribbling in on his table.

“Fuck! Do you mind?”

“These are nothing.”

“They’re clearly fuckin’ something! Else they wouldn’t have jostled my fucking pen when you _threw them_ at me.”

“They’re pot-induced fairytales.”

Anderson pinched the bridge of his nose. “You know, at first pissing you off was funny. But now _I’m_ getting pissed off.”

“This is all just a joke to you, isn’t it? Your job? The Bureau? This case isn’t even real!”

“Christ, Connor. The case is fucking real! You’ll see how real it is in two hours! And then maybe you’ll see that I give a whole _shit_ about my job, regardless of how it seems to you.” He turned and pushed into Connor’s personal space, wide shoulders blocking the view of the aisle and eyes glinting in the light from the window. “I might be a joke to you. I might be ‘creepy’ or ‘paranoid’ or fucking ‘spooky’ or whatever nickname they’re giving me at the Academy these days. But I take my work fucking seriously, and if you’re not gonna do that then I’m gonna put in my own request to have you removed. And trust me, they’ll _listen_ to me. But they won’t send you back to fucking Violent Crimes.”

Connor grit his teeth, held his ground, and tried to act like Anderson wasn’t getting to him. But his head flew through the monologue he’d just been given, and he felt the deja vu of its similarity to his own rant the day before. Shit. Maybe Anderson wasn’t fucking with him, maybe this _was_ a real case.

“I apologise.” He muttered stiffly. “For assuming the worst. I’ll take your words more seriously in the future.” He looked into the eyes currently about five inches from his face. “But I’m not going to read conspiracy theories and take them as evidence, Anderson.”

Anderson sat back in his seat. “Then you’re not gonna solve this case.”

“I’m going to solve this case.”

Connor was not going to solve this case. It was impossible - nothing within two miles of being connected to it made any sense.

They’d made straight for the lab as soon as the plane had touched down, with Hank driving the rental car and blasting Mötley Crüe loud enough to blow Connor’s eardrums (he’d spent most of the plane ride asleep, and it had apparently cured him completely of his hangover). Once they reached the morgue, they were given all available information - which matched up almost perfectly with what they already knew. And then Connor was allowed his own inspection of the body.

And that was where he was, standing over the dead teenager with his shirtsleeves rolled up, looking into those pinprick eyes with the knowledge that he was _not_ going to solve this.

For one, there was no obvious cause of death. It seemed like Wagner had just keeled over and died for no reason. Connor was itching to open him up again to double check what the coroner had found, but he didn’t want to do the paperwork for that. And there wouldn’t be anything _to_ find, he could feel it in his stomach.

“How did they decide a time of death if they don’t know how he died?” Anderson grunted, interrupting Connor’s thoughts as though he’d been able to hear them.

“Everything else about how he was found.” Connor pressed two fingers to his temple. “There was rain up until eleven that night, but only the side he had touching the grass was wet, meaning he was only outside after that. Rigor mortis had set in already, and the body was completely cool when it was found so it must’ve been there for more than three hours - well, two, considering the night temperature in this area. Livor mortis had also become visible when the body was found - you can still see the effect on the right side since that _was_ the lower area.”

He gestured with his free hand as he talked. The right side of the corpse was a bruised shade of purple, the effect of gravity pulling the blood down and letting it pool to coagulate. He continued, enjoying the shudder Anderson released as he examined what Connor was pointing at. “And since he was out after eleven but at least two hours before six am - and there was no car on site - someone must’ve driven him there. But didn't you read the report? It said all of this.”

“Yeah.” Anderson looked as smug as he could, obviously trying to hide how uncomfortable the in-depth review of the dead made him. “I wanted to make sure you were treating this as a real case.”

Connor narrowed his eyes. “Anyway. We need to figure out how he got into a locked area - over ten foot fences without alerting security. _And_ how he died. And what caused this change in his eyes.”

“And we have to do that with only that evidence right there.”

“They did also find one other thing.”

“Mhm?”

“His watch stopped at midnight exactly.”

Anderson blinked. “That wasn't in the report. Not even the first one.”

Connor pulled the watch out of the ziplock evidence bag it had been shoved into and held it out towards Anderson. The hands were exact, all three hitting twelve.

“That doesn’t prove anything, it could just be new.”

Connor shrugged. “That could be true. There’s one way to find out.” He placed it, backside up, onto the table beside the body and fingered through the tools to find something small enough to loosen the tiny screws holding the panel to the back. He settled on pair of tweezers and started trying to convince the screws to accept them. Out of the corner of his eye he traced Anderson's path towards him.

“So you really think this is a big clue, huh?”

Connor paused. Did he? He wasn’t sure. He felt like he were grasping at straws. “There’s an uncommon phenomena documented,” He started, looking over his shoulder at Anderson, who was stood now very close behind him and with his eyes on the watch, “Where watches will stop at the time a person dies.”

“But that’s speculation.”

Connor frowned and turned back around, hiding the petulant shade of red his face was going and reaching for an explanation in the back of his head. “Not entirely. Watches have a limited lifespan if they aren’t serviced or regularly used. If you wear one often, even as the spring loosens the movement of the wearer’s body can provide enough kinetic power and tension to keep it going. But once they aren’t moving - if the watch is off the body or if the body is still for an extended period of time - there’s no more power, and it’ll stop. Now that doesn’t suggest that watches stop at the exact time of death, but an external influence, like a magnet, could factor into that.”

Anderson squinted at him. “How d’you know so much about watches?”

“I have a friend who did his thesis in Physics on Momentum and Mechanics.”

“Huh, thrilling. But just so you know, you did sound like me saying that.”

Shit, he did sound like a fucking conspiracy theorist. Connor flushed and glared daggers at Anderson, flicking his eyes back to the watch and hands back to work opening it. “It was just a theory, and I doubt we’ll find anything more _realistic_ for this case.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s impossible. It feels like there’s nothing here!”

Anderson ran his hand over his chin, looking thoughtfully into Connor’s eyes. Standing far too close. “Huh.”

“What does ‘huh’ mean, Anderson?”

“You remember what it said in the first report?”

Connor thought. “The feeling they had? But there’s no way there’s a scientific explanation for that.”

“That shit you just said about watches? There’s no way there’s fuckin’ scientific backing for _that_.”

“Not a lot, but there’s still some. Do you have any proof?”

Anderson rolled his eyes. “None that you’re gonna like.”

Connor gave up on the watch for a moment, dropping it in a frustrated clatter onto the table. “You know what, just tell me.”

Anderson reached around him immediately, plucking the watch and tweezers up and trying his hand at opening it, the obnoxious fucker.

“A few years back a kid went missing from just outside Detroit. Anna Springs. She was nineteen, couldn’t drive, and turned up a week later next to the lake here in Cadillac. It was pretty much the same as what we’re seeing here. Right down to the fuckin’ feeling you’re getting right now.”

Connor frowned, watching Hank’s hands as they dwarfed the watch and poked at it aggressively.

“And why didn’t you give me her file?”

“Because you’d have a hernia at what I chalked it down to.”

Connor took an educated guess. “Aliens.”

“Yeah. I think Anna Springs was abducted, and I think Alan here was too. I think he might be our chance to stop anyone else from sharing the same fate.”

Connor focused the force of his glare on those hands, still failing to make any headway with the watch. “How do you propose we do that?” He grit out.

“Well I can just _hear_ the hernia coming. I don’t know. But I’m gonna figure it out.”

Connor let himself look up into Anderson’s eyes, the heat of his expression doing nothing to melt the icy blue of those irises. “You’re dead set on me losing my mind _and_ my badge, aren’t you?”

“If I wanted you to lose your badge, you’d have already lost it.” Anderson snorted.

Connor was getting tired of this. “I want to take a closer look at the body, see if there’s anything the coroner missed. And I want you to go and buy a fucking screwdriver for that watch.” He still couldn’t shake the feeling of being on the precipice of failure, but if Anderson was right (which was unlikely) and it _was_ simply due to the body, he was going to fight it back with all of his energy.  

“Aw, you’re taking the fun job!”

“Just go.”

Anderson held his hands up and walked backwards towards the door, still holding the watch. Connor let him leave with it, it would hardly be any use him returning with the wrong kind of screwdriver because he hadn’t bothered checking what he needed while he was there. He turned his attention back to the body. Right.

Half an hour later, Anderson was back. Connor had taken off his shirt and was wearing an apron to cover his vest. He was up to the tops of his elbow length sterile gloves in the victim’s stomach, trying to put the facts together. But it didn’t seem to be working.

“I got coffee. Find anything interesting?”

“Yes and no.” Connor sighed. “I’m exhausted.”

“We’ve only been here for like, three hours. This too much for you, Connor?”

Connor glared at him. “No. But I can’t find the cause of death. There are multiple damaged organs that weren’t mentioned in the report, and all of them could be fatal, but it seems like they were all - all simultaneous. And there’s no discernable external trauma that could have caused any of this.” He rubbed his eyes, trying to push away the tension, exhaustion and downright depression that had built up in his head. “And I still feel like giving up, which is _not_ like me.”

“Go for a walk. I think the body’s getting to you.”

“No. I need to finish this.”

“Connor. Go for a walk.”

“No. You’re not my _boss_ , Anderson. You don’t tell me what to do. I have a mission here, and I’m going to complete it.”

Anderson huffed and crossed his arms. Connor was surprised that he _could_ , considering what he was wearing. Over his (slightly gaudy) suit he sported a thick, dark brown leather jacket that looked the way mothballs smelled.

“The kid's dead, he's not exactly going anywhere. You need to get out of this room before whatever's going on here drives you crazy.”

Connor’s jaw twitched. “Fine. You know what, fine. But I'm not going to go for a walk.” He tugged his gloves off harshly and deposited them and his apron in the ‘biohazard’ waste bin. Then he grabbed his shirt and jacket and pulled them on as he pushed past Anderson and out the door. “We're going to go ask the coroner some questions.”

“Alright, sure. We just leaving this guy here, like, open?”

“Obviously.” Connor rolled his eyes, flagging down an attendant as he did to tell them about the state they were leaving the room in. He wasn’t an idiot, thanks.

In the car, he started to feel more himself. Anderson seemed to know where he was going so Connor let him drive, staring out of the window and pondering.

The damage to the body didn’t make any more sense in the light of the outside world, and Connor doubted that putting distance between himself and the deceased would make much of a difference. And on top of that there was the _other_ body, and a voice in the back of his head told him to at least _consider_ the articles he’d read on the plane. He ignored that voice for now. But the other body, that was something to think about. Maybe there would be more to learn from it.

“Anderson?” He said, turning the radio volume down to a more manageable level. “What was the cause of death in the other case you mentioned?”

“Oh, it was something. Hemorrhaging in the brain, I think?”

“Hm.” Connor pressed his fingers into his temple. “But this - the coroner never examined the brain.”

Anderson looked over at him with an odd half smile. “Guess we should ask him about that, huh?”

It took far more effort than it should have to not return that smile. Especially considering that he was in one of the worst moods of his life and that it was Hank Anderson smiling at him. And then something snuck into his head.

“Did you find a screwdriver to open the watch?”

“Oh, yeah.” Anderson reached over and popped open the glove compartment. “It's in there, so is the watch.”

Connor blinked at him. “You… you put evidence in the glove of this rental car?”

“Yeah?”

There was no urge to smile any more, but there was an urge to glare, and one he gave in to immediately.

“What? It’s already been checked for prints ‘n shit.”

Connor rubbed his eyes and decided that replying would only cause further stress. He dug around among the rental paperwork and came away with the watch and a box boasting itself to be a ‘watch repair kit’. Inside were five tiny screwdrivers, a pair of plastic tweezers, what looked like a miniature crowbar, and a small bag of screws in various sizes. A surprisingly smart purchase from Anderson considering the impression he’d made thus far. Connor picked the screwdriver that looked like it would fit best and tested it out. The first screw was out in seconds.

“Thank you.” He muttered, starting on the second.

“You talking to me or the watch?”

“You.” _Regretfully_.

“Aw, _shucks_. You don't have to thank me, it’s all part of the job.”

“Then I won’t in the future.” Connor looked up with a quirked eyebrow. “Didn’t you buy coffee?”

“Ah _fuck_.” Anderson slammed his hand down on the side of the wheel. “Left them at the fuckin’ morgue.”

Connor snorted, a small but proper laugh. “Well there's no point going back for them.”

“You not _exhausted_ any more?” Anderson sneered mildly.

Connor considered. In all honesty, he felt fine. He said as much.

“And you don't think it's a little too much of a coincidence that you feel all fine ‘n dandy now that we're away from that creepy fucker on the table back there?”

“Until you can provide me with an evidence-based theory for it, no. I think it could be due to being out of a depressing situation, even if the one I'm in now isn't any less dejecting.”

“Mhm. So you say all that bullshit back there about watches and yet this is _still_ too much for you?”

“Shut up and focus on the road.”

“Cool. You just keep bein’ an asshole, Connor. Ain't gonna change anything.”

Connor bit back a sarcastic retort, it wouldn't do him any good whatsoever to get in an argument with Anderson. It would just stress him out. He popped the back of the watch open with the little crowbar and gently lifted it off.

The inside of the watch was a disaster. Connor had seen enough geared mechanics in his time rooming with Josh to be able to at least tell when one would work, yet he didn't even need that knowledge to know that this was not a functioning machine.

The gears that moved the hands were bent out of place, pushed to the sides as though someone had jammed a finger into it and probed about. The spring was coiled incorrectly, like had been torn out and replaced in the wrong spot, curls overlapping and interlacing.

“My theory was incorrect.” Connor sighed. “This has been tampered with. It's always the simple answer.”

“Except when it isn't.” Anderson hummed. “Well you can interrogate the coroner about that if you want. We're here.”

The house was ‘white middle class’ average. Suburban plot with a white picket fence and a barbecue in the front yard. There was a toy truck lying upturned in the grass, the Barbie dolls that might have been its passengers sitting at a tea party nearby.

Anderson rang the doorbell and after only a moment of the cheerful echoing the door was answered by a frazzled looking middle aged woman in an apron.

“Can I help you?” She asked, a frown pulling at her lips as she took in their suits.

Connor butted in before Anderson could speak.

“Hi, ma'am. I'm Agent Connor, this is Agent Anderson. We're with the FBI. We're just here to ask your husband some questions about a body he performed an autopsy on the other day.”

“Oh. Of course. You both come in, I'll get him for you.” She nodded and gestured with small, hasty waves of her hand for them to follow her through the house. “And I'll put the kettle on, too. Are you two coffee drinkers?”

“I'd love coffee.” Anderson smiled. Connor tried not to laugh.

The inside of the house was just as typical as Connor was expecting. The walls were slightly subdued yet highly saturated shades of blue and green, with busy floral carpets and curtains as they moved into the lounge. The woman (Mrs. Newton) gestured for them to sit down while she went off to fetch her husband. The couch was brown leather and deflated with a puff through the seams as the Agents sat in tandem.

As cheery as it felt; as lived in and cared for, Connor was uncomfortable. His assumption was usually that houses were a facade - with objects placed for visitors to see but inhabitants not to touch. That had been his experience. Was this real? Or was it some performative attempt at the ideal American family? He adjusted his tie and smoothed wrinkles from his shirt, trying to feel a little at home in this home.

There was squealing laughter and pounding feet coming down the hall, and after a moment two children came careening into the room, toy planes in their hands. They wobbled to a stop when they spotted Connor and Anderson on the couch. Both were presumably girls, in matching yellow dresses. The shorter grabbed her sister by the elbow and hid behind her, looking out over her shoulder with wide blue eyes. Her sister crossed her arms.

“Who are you?” She demanded, chin lifted high.

Connor wasn’t sure whether he were meant to respond. He wasn’t used to children - especially not children with any amount of confidence around strangers. Luckily, Anderson took the lead.

“My name is Hank, and this is Connor. We’re working with your daddy at the moment. What are your names?”

“I’m June, and this is Maggie. She’s my _little_ sister.” The taller girl announced, putting emphasis on the word ‘little’ so that they made no mistake in the matter. “Do you have any candy?”

“Straight to the point.” Anderson snorted. “You gonna be a detective when you grow up?”

June shook her head. “I'm gonna be a dolphin trainer.”

“I'm gonna be a doctor.” Maggie piped up, still staying safely behind her sister.

“You girls must be pretty smart to wanna do that.” Hank whistled, sounding incredibly impressed. “But I’m afraid I don’t have any candy.” He elbowed Connor and looked at him questioningly.

Connor felt around in his pockets. “Does gum count?” He whispered. Anderson shook his head, looking slightly alarmed that Connor had even questioned that. “I don’t either.” He smiled apologetically at the girls.

June looked him up and down, shuffling forward a bit on her feet. “You look weird, are you real?” She asked suddenly.

Connor blinked. “Me?”

June nodded.

“I’m… real? I am. Yes.”

Anderson snorted, clearly amused by Connor’s floundering, and Connor wished it would be acceptable to dig his heel into Anderson’s toes.

“You look like Ken.”

“Like Ken?”

“You know, Ken dolls. You look like a Ken doll!”

Anderson nudged his shoulder. “I think technically that’s a compliment. Ken’s like, the perfect man.” He muttered.

“Is that your personal opinion? Because I’d hardly trust you to be a good judge.” Connor jabbed, taking a small bit of pleasure in this simple release of his irritation.

“It’s the general opinion, asshole. Thank the kid.”

“Thank you?” Connor tried, giving an awkward smile.

Maggie whispered in her sisters ear and June giggled.

“Maggie says you have pretty eyes.” She said.

Maggie gasped and bounced on her heels. “Why did you tell him _I_ said it?” She whined. “That’s embarrassing!”

“How come you’re focusing on Connor?” Anderson interrupted. “Who do I look like?” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees in a more relaxed position than Connor had seen him in before. “Superman? Maybe G.I Joe? Or a gorilla?”

The girls burst into fits of giggles and nodded enthusiastically.

“Which one? The gorilla?”

More giggles, more nodding.

Anderson gasped. “How could you tell?” He started in a series of whooping noises, bouncing slightly on the couch and making scooping motions with his arms.

And naturally, Doctor and Mrs Newton entered the room as Anderson was doing that impression. Connor winced inwardly, ashamed at this less than professional first impression they were giving, though neither of the parents seemed to mind. Nor, for that matter, did Anderson.

“Oh, you must be Henry Newton, right?” He asked, standing and extending a hand as though nothing were out of the ordinary.

“I am, yes.” Doctor Newton took the offered hand and shook warmly, leaning down to shake Connor’s next without giving him a chance to get up from his seat.

“Alright girls, Daddy’s going to talk to the nice Agents now, so we should leave.” Mrs. Newton attempted to herd the children outside, but as soon as she said the word ‘agents’ Maggie’s eyes glinted and she gasped.

“Are you _secret agents_ ?” She demanded, bounding over and tugging on Anderson’s sleeve. “Like _Inspector Gadget_?”

“Inspector Gadget is a Detective, dummy.” June huffed, looking jealous that Maggie was getting the attention now.

“But we are secret agents.” Anderson winked. “And I’ll tell you what, if you two are good and let us talk to your Daddy alone for a while you can play with my special badge.”

Maggie started bouncing on her heels again. “You mean it?”

“For sure.” Anderson rifled through his pockets and pulled out his badge, handing it to her casually. Maggie took it as though it were the sword she were being knighted with, completely enraptured. After a moment though, she seemed to come back to herself and scampered up to her mother, showing her the badge and exclaiming just how cool it was.

June again looked jealous. Connor rubbed his temple, he knew what the nice thing to do was he just wasn’t entirely sure how to initiate it. But when June’s slightly tearful eyes met his he had no choice _but_ to make his move.

“You can have mine, also.” He smiled stiffly. When June grinned and ran up to him, arms outstretched, the smile became a little more genuine. He handed it down to her. “Mine might even be a bit nicer.” He whispered. “But don’t tell Maggie.”

June nodded, wide eyed, staring up at him as though he’d answered all her deepest questions and clutching the badge to her chest. She gave him the broadest smile he’d ever seen and went off to join her sister and mother as they left the room. Connor felt a warmth grow in his chest as he watched them leave.

“You have kids of your own?” He was brought back to the others in the room by Doctor Newton rather nervously asking a question, and when he turned to look at the man it was apparent the question was directed at him.

He shook his head. “No. None.”

“Well, there’s always time.”

The warmth left his chest as he nodded at that.

“What about you?” Newton switched his focus. “Got any little monsters?”

Anderson grunted beside him and Connor glanced to see his reaction. He had a slightly pained look on his face. “One. A little boy. Name’s Cole.” His voice was tight, too, and Newton seemed to sense that this wasn’t a topic that wanted any more discussion.

“Doctor.” Connor began, folding his hands in his lap and straightening his posture. “We’re here regarding Alan Walner’s body.”

“Ah, you are?” Newton looked even more nervous. It seemed to be a very different person sitting before them. When he’d entered Connor had seen him as every stereotype this house had suggested him to be; a broad, white American man with slightly thinning hair and an easy smile next to his wife. But now he’d shrunk in on himself; his body was closed off, his eyes tired and hands twitching on the arms of the chair he’d sat in.

“Yes. I’d like to enquire as to why you didn’t complete the autopsy. And why you left so many things out.”

“You opened him back up?”

“Yes. I wanted to perform my own evaluation as a qualified second party. And my findings were _not_ concurrent with yours.”

“They weren’t?” Newton asked, but his expression indicated that he knew this to be the case.

“Why did you not write everything down?”

Newton ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know. I thought - I thought maybe they would chalk it all up to a freak accident. I just couldn’t stand to be near that _body_ any longer.”

“Why not?” Anderson cut in.

“It made me feel _awful_. I felt as though the work I was doing was futile - every day I just wanted to lie on the floor and cry.” He scratched his chin. “At one point near the end I did. I lay down and just sobbed, for hours. It felt like the world was coming crashing down. This pit in my gut.”

“Have you ever suffered from depression, Doctor?” Anderson asked, again leaning forward onto his knees, though not with the comfortable relaxedness he’d shown earlier.

“No, not at all.” Newton shook his head. “But I guess I - I felt depressed. That fits the feeling.”

Anderson nodded vaguely and Connor took that to mean it was his turn to ask a question.

“Did anyone else have access to the personal effects of the victim other than you and the Forensics team?”

Newton shook his head again. “No, we keep a close eye on evidence here in cases like this.”

“So you’d say that if evidence were tampered with it must be by someone on that team, or yourself?”

Newton frowned, looking slightly worried. “Well, yes. Unless it was tampered with before it got to us.”

“Unless someone had the correct tools I doubt it could be.” Connor muttered to himself, and then outwardly he said: “Did you examine the victim’s watch?”

“No, I can’t say that I did.” Newton gave a stuttered laugh. “That wasn’t my job, after all.”

“You didn’t really _do_ your job though, did you?”

“I - I tried to.”

“And you couldn’t finish it, but rather than announcing that and allowing someone else to take over from you, you lied.” Connor turned his hands over, palms facing up in an open gesture. He tried for sympathetic. “You see why I struggle to not place you the perpetrator of this crime.”

Newton looked incredibly alarmed now. “I didn’t kill him. I was at home that evening, with guests who can attest to that.”

“I’m not saying you’re responsible for the death of the victim, Doctor. Though I find it very interesting that your immediate thought was to that. I was suggesting that you may have tampered with the victim’s watch.”

“I would never do that. I wasn’t even aware there was a watch! You can check back through the security footage.”

Connor rubbed his temples. “Alright, we will.” He looked from between his fingers to assess Newton’s response. He seemed to slump in relief. Not worried about them finding anything then. “Thank you for your time. We'll be leaving.”

Doctor Newton remained in the living room while his wife showed them out, the two girls bouncing at her heels, completely unaware of the tension that had settled on the adults.

Once they were in the car, Connor leaned back in his seat and assessed.

“Ignoring the damaged organs, his eyes and his teeth point to some kind of shock caused by a bright light. If I can get back and finish the autopsy on the brain we may find the cause of death, and from there we can work on understanding why his organs reacted how they did.”

“No offense, Connor, but I think that body’s given us all we’re gettin’.” Anderson sighed, unusually resigned. “There ain't gonna be any easy human explanation for it no matter how long we look for one. Just say it was organ failure and let's go ask his parents some questions. Occam's Razor ‘n all that.”

“That's not even remotely what that means.” Connor rubbed his eyes. “I agree that we should question the parents first. I'm going to request a new coroner. There has to be a cause, and even if I can't spare the time to find it I want to know what it is.”

“Knock yourself out.”

Connor pulled out his cell phone and dialed for the operator, requesting the mortuary office and explaining their request while Anderson simply sat there. He continued to sit, silently, even after Connor had finished his call.

“Anderson?”

“Hm? Oh, sorry.”

Connor peered out of the window, where Anderson had been looking. The two girls were playing in the yard now, sitting with their Barbie dolls and bickering over something or other.

“We got our badges back.” Connor assured, assuming that to be the reason for Anderson's staring.

“I know.” Anderson grunted. He put the car in gear and pulled away from the house. His face was a closed off mask, and although Connor felt tempted to pry just to annoy his partner, he decided it would be best to leave him be.

They reached a traffic light and Anderson pulled out a map to toss into Connor’s lap.

“Six thirty two Lincoln.” He ordered. “Tell me how the fuck we're getting there.”

“You should look into rentals with global positioning devices.” Connor sighed, opening up the paper. “People say they're not worth driving without.”

“I'm sure those people are in departments where the funding isn't counted in pennies.” Anderson snorted. “I'm not shelling a couple hundred more out on something for the government to track my every fuckin’ move.”

Right. Conspiracy theorist. “We are the government, Anderson.”

“Even more reason to not use the fuckin’ things.”

Connor huffed. He looked at the map. It didn’t take him long to find Lincoln, on the other side of town (of course), and shockingly enough Anderson was good enough at listening to directions that they didn’t make a single wrong turn.

This house was much smaller than the last, and felt a little more worn down. A little less perfect. It might have once felt homely, but the air inside now was thick with mourning. Alan Walner’s parents looked exhausted and resigned, they welcomed the Agents in meekly and with no enthusiasm. Connor understood it.

“Mr and Mrs Walner, would you walk us through Alan's day on the eighth?” Anderson asked softly. They were seated at a dining table now, across from the parents, not unlike the setup for an interrogation.

“We already told the police everything.” Mr Walner muttered.

“It was the same as it always is on a Saturday.” Mrs Walner began, ignoring her husband. They were sitting far apart, and Connor realised they’d been ignoring one another. “He was playing on his Super Nintendo - I went in to tell him to wash the dishes later and he said that would be fine. He never did wash them. But he left the house at six to walk to the arcade to meet with Tyrese, and they stayed there for an hour or so and he came right back here for dinner. Sometimes they stop at the store on the way back for trading cards, but they didn't that day. I don't know why.”

“And you’re certain they went to the arcade?”

“Yes.” Mrs Walner met their eyes. She looked tired. “Alan is - was - he was a bit of a geek. Outside of school he didn’t do much other than playing video games or going out to the arcade with Tyrese.”

“And you said he was with Tyrese that day?”

“Yes.”

“Did you see them together?” Connor smoothly inserted himself into the conversation.

“Tyrese was outside when Alan got home, he waved at me. They both seemed really happy! There - I didn't think there was anything odd about it.”

“Did Tyrese give anything to Alan? Did Alan have anything strange on him?”

“What? No. No, he only took his wallet with him, and that’s all he had when he got back.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. Alan wouldn’t hide things. He doesn’t need to.”

Anderson cut in. “Was there anything strange _about_ Alan when he got home?”

“I don’t know what you mean by - by any of this. Alan wasn’t _strange_ , he was _killed_.”

“We know, Mrs Walner. We just want to know all of this so that we can find the killer.” Anderson scratched his beard. Connor wondered how often he washed it. “Tell me something, did Alan have an itch?”

“An - how did you know about that?”

“Just a guess, Mrs. Would you tell me more about it?”

“It was on his neck. The doctors couldn’t find any rash, but it was - was flaring up for the past week. He said it wouldn’t go away, that it felt hot. Is that related to this?”

“No, not at all. Just corroborating statements.”

Mr Walner looked up at them. “Are you done now?”

“Not quite.” Connor kept his expression neutral even as Mr Walner glared. “We’re going to need to take a look at Alan’s room.”

From his room, Connor could see that Alan was maybe more than a ‘bit of a geek’. A large television sat on a block at the end of his bed, next to a mess of wires that presumably connected to the SNES and Playstation on the floor. A binder of ‘Magic: The Gathering’ cards had been discarded across the room and Connor flipped it open. His collection was massive, tabs separating cards from common to uncommon and each organised by colour. His mother probably wasn’t lying about him stopping at the store then.

“I don’t think Alan ever went to sleep.” Anderson said.

Connor looked over. Anderson was by the bed, arms folded as he looked down accusingly at a Playstation controller lying on it.

“I don’t think this is enough evidence to support that.” Connor pursed his lips and came to stand beside Anderson. “He’s a teenager.”

“Your point?”

“He could have slept with it in the bed with him.”

“If he’d done that it’d be to one side, or under the sheets. It’s dead centre.”

Connor frowned. “Huh. That’s true.”

“Anyway, don’t you usually put your controller away when you turn the TV off? You might as well if you’re reachin’ over there, right? Help me out here.”

“I’m thirty two, Anderson. I don’t play video games.”

Anderson surveyed him. “Mmh. Should’a thought as much. You’re a different strain of nerd.”

Connor pinched the bridge of his nose. “Can you stop insulting me and get back to the investigation? So if he didn’t go to sleep, what happened to him in the time between him getting home and being found in Manton.”

Anderson picked the controller up and sat heavily on the bed.

“Hey! What are you doing?” Connor groaned. “That could have been evidence. You can’t just go about moving things!”

“You’re thirty two, huh?” Anderson looked up at him with narrow blue eyes. “I’ve been at this as long as you’ve been alive. You need to trust that I know what I’m doing.”

Connor opened his mouth to remind Anderson that they were the same rank and that if he’d been doing this for _that_ long you’d think he’d have a little fucking more to show from it, but his words caught in his throat. This just gave him more material for his reports. He could bring this man down without even trying. He gestured for Anderson to continue.

“Right. So. Kid’s playing his games; he’s sat on his bed and he’s got his controller.” Anderson kicked his legs up onto the bed in front of him, shoes on the sheets. “He’s playing along and then he gets tired of playing that, maybe, so he turns the TV off.” With the difficulty that came with wearing too many layers of clothing, he turned himself on the bed and crawled forward to turn off the television. He looked far too large for this setting, bed creaking under him, low to the ground already but even lower with his weight. “But why would he leave the controller on his bed then, huh?”

“Maybe he forgot to put it back when he went to turn the TV off?”

“Maybe.” Anderson nodded. He looked at Connor over his shoulder, thumb hovering over the power button on the TV. “Or maybe he never turned the thing off.”

“Are you suggesting it turned off itself?”

Anderson shook his head. He pressed down on the button. Nothing happened. He smirked. “I think it shorted out.”

“How?”

“I don’t know. But I do know that we got a pretty fuckin’ strong contender for the cause of his eyes. And if it was a current of some sort that’d explain his teeth.”

“But if it was something like that - a current strong enough to crack his teeth - it would cause heat damage. There would be burns. And as for his eyes, a flash of light that bright would be seen by other houses on the block.”

“Mm. A lightning strike maybe?”

“Again, there would be external burning - and internal for that matter, but the damage to his organs was different. It looked like pressure was the cause; like the organs had been squeezed. And aside from that, we already know what the weather was like”

“Pressure, huh? Okay, hear me out.”

Connor folded his arms and nodded, eyebrows raised.

“What if this was a different kind of current. Not something electrical. And it didn't pass from the TV to him, but through the whole room. He was playing his video games when the current comes in.” He nodded to the light switch. They had been relying on the midday sun shining on through the windows, up to that point. “Try that.”

Connor did. Nothing happened. Huh. The lightbulb hadn't smashed, so it couldn't have overheated, just blown.

“Alright then.”

“But the television downstairs seemed completely fine. And I think the lights were all on when we came in.”

“The current was localised to this room.” Anderson got up from the bed and reached up to unscrew the bulb. “It didn’t go through the rest of the house.”

“And how did that happen? I doubt this room has a separate power source.”

Anderson pocketed the bulb and kept his hands in his pockets as he sauntered forwards towards Connor.

“He was abducted.” He said. His back was to the window, figure casting a shadow over Connor.

“He may well have been abducted by _someone_. But not someone with the ability to send a current through only his bedroom and kill him. And not some kind of extraterrestrial, Anderson.”

Anderson sighed. He walked past Connor to the door. “You’ll have to believe me at some point, Connor.”

“Where are you going? We haven’t finished examining the room.”

“I know all I need to know. We’re gonna go interrogate the kid’s friend.”

Connor pressed his fingers to his temples. He was starting to get a headache.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> its midnight i just got back from going randomly btween two pubs and a sainsburys just chillin with ppl ive never met before cons are the best experience u will EVER have 
> 
> follow my nsfw twitter!! @robotwunk!!! i talk abt hankcon!!!!!!! a lot!!!!!!!!!!!!


	3. Part One - Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey its chaboi im no longer at con so any mistakes updating this are my whole fault, i hope you like this chapter! this case has been really hard to write (mostly bc im trying to have it follow at least a little with the plot of the first xfiles ep and,, not as fun as the other cases ive been working on for later on)
> 
> content warnings:  
> \- smoking  
> \- food

They proceeded to the third house that day, in an area of town that reeked a lot less of gentrification, where the Walner parents had informed them that Tyrese Michaels lived with his father.

“So Mrs. Walner tells us you and Alan were friends since third grade. That right?” 

Tyrese’s father was out at work, and so the detectives were left only the kid himself to question. A kid who didn’t seem all that eager to answer. His answers had been curt and defensive as they’d sat down in the lounge, and his eyes remained stuck on the hardwood flooring. He didn’t move when Anderson started his questioning.

“Yeah.”

“And you were close?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you hang out much?”

“Yeah.”

“What did you do when you hung out?”

“Went to the arcade or played Magic.” A slight pause. “Or played on his video games if his parents were out.”

“Alright. Magic, huh? That’s a bit past my time, wanna explain it to me?” 

“Do I have to?”

“‘Course not.” 

“Then no.” 

Anderson laughed softly. “Alright. Fair enough.” He ran a hand through his hair. “On the eighth, you and Alan went to the arcade, correct?” 

“Yes.” The word was bitten out, quickly. Tyrese wanted them to leave, and Connor wanted to know why.

“So you went to the arcade, played your games, and headed on home. That it?”

“We got slushies from the Sonic across the street before we went in.”

“What flavour?”

Tyrese nearly looked up. Connor saw the movement in his eyes: shock, confusion. “I got, uh, strawberry sprite. Don’t know about Alan.”

Anderson leaned back casually in his chair. Connor was getting impatient. The day had already been long, and they’d made no headway still. 

“Sonic, though. Did you just stand in a parking space or something? Or that one have a walk in too?”

Tyrese shook his head. “They only have one window for the drive thru. We just go up ‘n order. They thought it was weird at first but they’re the only place around that doesn’t charge too much for the drinks.”

“You got good ideas.” Anderson hummed. 

“Why didn’t you stop at the store? Mrs. Walner told us you usually do.” Connor interrupted. He ignored Anderson’s glare.

“It was a Saturday. They don’t get new Magic cards in ‘til Monday, and I hadn’t had my paycheck, anyway.” Tyrese was still looking blankly at the floor. A little more tension built in his shoulders.

“Would you tell me a little bit about what you and Alan did at the arcade?” 

“We played games.” 

“What games did you play?” 

Tyrese’s brow furrowed. A light grimace passed over his lips. “I don't remember “ 

“I'd like it if you'd try to remember for me.” 

Finally, Tyrese looked up. The grimace solidified on his face. “I don't remember.” He looked down again and rubbed his cheek. “I tried. I kept trying. I - who doesn't remember what they did the last time they saw their best friend. I just don't remember. We went to that place on Friday too, ‘n all the games we played blur together. I don't remember which was which.” He ran his hand up his cheek again, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. Connor realised he was trying not to cry just as Anderson sprung from his seat to sit next to Tyrese.

“Hey. Hey, man, it's okay.” Anderson soothed. “I get it. You don't remember ‘cause it didn't seem big at the time.” 

Tyrese sniffed. “But what kinda person doesn't remember that? He was my best friend. I should be able to remember the last fuckin’ day we spent together.” 

Anderson carefully placed a hand on Tyrese’s back, and when the kid didn't push him off he began rubbing circles. “It's alright. You can cry. You're allowed regrets. But hey, you still remember going out with him right? Even if you can't remember what games you played together, you still remember being there. It ain't about the fuckin’ games. We just wanna know that shit to see if anything weird’s going on.” 

In a very unexpected move, Tyrese started outright crying, the sniffs that had been building released in messy sobs and he turned to bury his face in the couch cushions. Connor stiffened, not sure how to react. He'd been an agent for years, but he'd never seen a teenage boy cry like this.

“Hey, kid. It's okay. You want a hug?” 

Tyrese shook his head, knuckles pale as he held a pillow against his face. Anderson looked at Connor and nodded towards the door. He wanted him to leave? Connor frowned and shook his head, they hadn’t finished questioning yet. Tyrese may be emotional, but they still needed to find out what happened that day. 

Anderson rolled his eyes. “Connor, do me a favour and grab us some cold drinks from the fridge, would you?” 

“Sure.” Connor glared at him, but got up and wandered down the hall into the kitchen. Anxiety crawled over him as he looked through the cupboards, a ‘you shouldn’t be doing this’ feeling that he ignored. He found some glasses that he hoped weren’t put away for special occasions and looked through the fridge. A conversation from down the hall just about reached him as he did, the words impossible to make out. He poured three colas and crept quietly and flat-footed back towards the lounge. 

“You don’t need to tell us everything right now, okay? If you remember anything later, call me. I’m giving you my personal number and the number for the hotel I’m staying in. And kid. Don’t think too hard on this. It’ll come to you if it comes, but thinking about that night is only gonna get you an extra boatload of trauma you don’t need. You go about your life, let us deal with what happened to Alan. We’re gonna find out what happened, that’s our job. Your job is to take care of yourself, don’t stress out trying to think of the tiniest details.”

Tyrese muttered something, and Connor thought (hoped) that it was the right time to re-enter the room. He placed his glass on the table and handed the other drinks out wordlessly. 

Hank took his and downed it. “We can see ourselves out, alright? Remember what I said, kid. You're gonna be okay.” 

Connor followed him out of the door, leaving Tyrese hugging his pillow alone. It was a shame they hadn't gotten more out of him, Connor thought. 

“What's the time?” Anderson grunted. The front door swung shut behind them.

Connor looked at his watch. “Twelve fifty two.” He eyed Anderson. His partner nodded, pulling a cigarette from his pocket. “I hope you're not planning on smoking in the car.”

“Wouldn't dream of it.” Anderson huffed. He held the cigarette between his teeth and struggled with a lighter, barely getting it to spark with clumsy fingers. Connor scowled and snatched it from him, flicking once and getting a light. Anderson bent his head to catch the flame without giving thanks. “We're gonna walk and get lunch.” 

Connor looked up the street. They were on the outskirts of a residential area, and he remembered driving past a few places boasting burgers or kebab on the way there. He had to admit, the idea of stretching his legs after all that driving did appeal to him. He pushed his hands into his pockets and set off with the intent of staying ahead of Anderson to avoid a faceful of smoke. 

Anderson’s heavy footfalls followed him and they headed down the road in relative silence. Cars passing them scattered loose tarmac from potholes in the road; the wind rustled through the trees. It was a nice walk.

“Smoke?” Anderson asked. His voice, though not unpleasant in itself, ruined Connor’s calm moment. He glanced back to see a cigarette being offered.

“No, thank you. I don't.”

“Sure light up like someone with practice.”

“I’m good with my fingers.” Connor answered without much thought, then realised what he’d said and backtracked. “What I mean is, I used to play violin. It helps with things like that.”

Anderson snickered. “Sure.”

Connor clenched his fist around a coin in his pocket. 

“Violin, huh?”

He glared back at Anderson. “Yes. Can we just walk? I was enjoying the quiet.”

“Whatever you want, music man.”

They walked until they came across a burger joint, a tiny place attached to a run down bank, the neon ‘open’ sign in the window flickering. Connor tried to walk past.

“Alright, this looks good.” Anderson said. 

Connor stopped, turned, and gave Anderson a suffering grimace. “Really, this place?”

“Yeah, man. It’s got burgers.”

“It probably also has rats.”

“Point being?” Anderson dropped the butt of his cigarette and ground it out with his heel. “I don’t wanna walk too fuckin’ far.”

“Sure, whatever. You’re paying my hospital bills when I get cholera from the soda fountain.”

Anderson snorted and held the door for Connor, who refused to thank him as he walked in. 

The guy behind the counter seemed thrilled to actually have customers, and smiled widely as they ordered their burgers. The food was ready quickly, and they decided without discussion to sit outside to eat.

“Oh, yeah.” Anderson hummed appreciatively as he unwrapped his food. “This is what I needed.” 

Connor didn't see the appeal. The burgers were greasy and salty, not bad, but not great either. He ate his without comment. 

“Right.” Anderson had finished. “I wanna look through more local history, so unless you have anywhere urgent to be I say we head to the hotel.” 

“Local history?”

“Yeah. See if there are any unsolved murders that might be linked to this.”

More conspiracy theories. Connor took an angry bite of his burger. Just more conspiracy theories.

Conspiracy theories that he let Anderson look at. At first while Anderson did this he transcribed his recording from his earlier autopsy, and then while Anderson tapped away at a laptop he marked down notes from the new coroner that they'd called in. Evidently the brain had hemorrhaged, and the man told him shakily that that must have been the cause of death. Connor wasn't convinced by his tone.

After he hung up the phone he began pacing the space at the ends of their beds. He'd not been granted a room of his own, apparently due to the lack of funding for the X-files research (and he believed Anderson on that, he didn't seem too thrilled to be sharing either). Anderson had set himself up at the desk without saying anything, leaving Connor to find other places to do his work, and Connor had chosen to ignore it. 

“You're gonna dig a groove in that floor so deep you fall through.” Anderson groaned loudly. “And I can hear you thinking. What's the matter?”

“I’m just theorising.”

“Well can you theorise standing still?”

“No.”

“You’ve been doing that for -” Anderson looked over at the clock, which read six thirty “- an hour and a half.”

“And I plan on continuing.” Maybe he needed to look at this from a different angle?

“No, you don’t. We’re getting dinner. I’m gonna have a fuckin’ nervous breakdown if I have to put up with that for another minute.”

“Sure. You eat.” Connor waved towards the door. The eyes. Maybe that was done intentionally outside of what killed him? But how?

“Mm. No. We eat.” Anderson stood up and pulled his coat on. 

“I want to continue thinking.”

“Then continue thinking with a meal in you.” He squinted at Connor, hands in his pockets. “You haven’t eaten anything since lunch.” 

Connor frowned. He placed a hand on his stomach. He didn’t feel hungry, and he really wanted to think on this some more. But it would probably help to eat something, and he doubted Anderson was going to just let him be. He sighed and followed him out the door. 

They ended up at a barbeque house, despite Connor’s complaining. Anderson was a stubborn asshole, and Connor had made the mistake of letting him drive.

He ordered a cobb salad when he realised that that was an option, and a strawberry milkshake. The look of surprise he received from Anderson made it hard not to be smug. Nobody expected him to have a sweet tooth. 

“So, Connor. Wanna talk about something other than work?” 

Connor pulled a coin out of his pocket. “Not particularly.” He watched the metal catch the light. 

“C'mon. Throw me a bone here. You're stuck with me now, why not try to get along?”

Connor flipped the coin with the palm of his hand, catching it without looking and gesturing to Anderson’s beer. “Sure. Let's talk about something else. Do you drink often? Or just on cases?”

“Good one.” Anderson snorted. He tilted his head back and squinted, his blue eyes still pale in this low lighting. “Only when I'm already gonna be dealing with a headache the next day.” 

Connor took a sip of his milkshake through the straw. Anderson's eyes were drawn momentarily to his mouth.

“What about you, kid. Drink anything other than sugar?” 

Connor pulled away, catching a stray drop of milk with his tongue. “I like sweet. And don't call me kid, it's insulting.” 

“Mhm. Like that'll make me stop.” 

Connor closed his fist around the coin. “Well, talking was nice. Now all I would like to do is think about the case, okay?” 

Anderson wrinkled his nose. “Fine, sure.” 

Surprisingly, Anderson adhered to his words. Their meal was silent when it came, giving Connor time to think about the case. He found himself still at a loss. Still with no idea what to do, no leads to follow other than a the supposed second body that Anderson had given him the file on. It was much the same as the first, but Connor wasn’t sure what to do with that information. Springs had died four years ago, meaning even if they exonerated the body, there would be little to work with other than ooze and bones. But maybe there was something to the bones? And he could use a look at her teeth, since nothing in the autopsy report had mentioned them. 

“Anna Springs.” Connor coughed, startling Anderson into staring at him with a mouthful of coleslaw. “Is there any chance I could look at her?”

Anderson swallowed. “Tomorrow we’re headed to Detroit.” He coughed and grabbed his beer. “I already arranged that.”

“And you didn’t think to tell me?”

Anderson shrugged. His beer left a mustache of foam over his real mustache, and a moisture on his lips that Connor glared at instead of his eyes. “Thought it’d be a nice surprise.”

“You were wrong to think. I’d like to know these things, Anderson. I’m not your dog, or something, I won’t just follow you around and accept where you take me.”

“No, I actually fuckin’ like my dog.” Anderson scoffed. “But whatever you say, kid. I’ll tell you every time an ant takes a shit, if it makes you happy.”

Connor speared a tomato and shoved it into his mouth. He resolutely pretended Anderson didn’t exist for the rest of the meal. And only acknowledged him long enough to force Anderson to hand over the car keys, reminding him of the four beers he’d consumed over food (because while he pretended Anderson didn’t exist, it was hard not to notice every time another foaming glass was brought to the table). But once they were in the car, Connor turned the radio on to a classical station and drove them back to the hotel following road signs he'd seen on the map.

They didn’t talk as they prepared for bed, either. Unspoken, they took turns to change in the bathroom (Connor was looking at everywhere below Anderson’s face, which is the only reason he noticed the tattoo poking out from the cuff of his shorts, and the only reason he noticed how strong Anderson’s thighs looked). And once they were both in their beds Connor turned the lights off and pretended, in the darkness, that everything made a little more sense.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay someone bully me into finishing chapter four now thanks it does NOT want to be written but im determined to update this regularly
> 
> hmu on tumblr (robotwunk.tumblr.com) and twitter (NSFW!! @robotwunk) for other dumb shit and hey! i have a hankcon discord full of wonderful ppl who like to talk about important things like how big hank is, if you want in just hit me up on either of these n ill see abt adding u!!


	4. Part One - Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH MAN IM SORRY ITS BEEN A HOT MINUTE SINCE I UPDATED THIS ONE!! life got in the way and im probably gonna struggle to keep this on the schedule i said i would so im SORRY abt that
> 
> CONTENT WARNINGS:   
> \- gore (autopsy)  
> \- more of me being bad at procedure  
> \- food  
> \- panic attack

Connor woke up first, as the light of dawn snuck in through cracks in the curtains. His watch read five thirty, and he buried his face in the soft of the hotel pillow. He could never wake up at a normal time. He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling as his body slowly stopped being made of molasses. His head cleared a little and he was able to process the sounds around him. Or sound, singular. 

Anderson was snoring. Wonderful. 

Connor looked over. His partner was sleeping on his back, blankets halfway down the bed, vest rucked up to his armpits. His stomach was large and fuzzy, a sight Connor found it annoyingly difficult to look away from. 

He thought it best not to wake him, and got up and dressed quietly to go out running. The air outside was brisk, but not cold. It felt fresh on his tongue as he stretched, and cooled his throat as he jogged. 

The sun hadn't quite made it past the tops of the buildings as Connor started his run, it lit the world from a point hidden and low, where it cast the ground in shadow but coloured the tallest points bright. Connor's feet hit the pavement with quiet thuds. Cars that passed him rumbled, headlights dim, leaving trails of smoke from their exhausts to settle low on the ground for a minute. The dawn chorus had yet to start up, the sharp cawing of crows the only voices in the air. 

He followed the path as it took a turn away from the road and the buildings fell away either side of him into a park. Here, the sun reached the grass, catching the dew as Connor kicked it up in sprays in front of him. He wished for a moment he’d had the foresight to pack his Walkman, but he accepted being content with how things were. He passed through an open area, the sun on his back warming him, jogging at a constant pace. He didn’t pass anyone else, though every once in a while a bush would rustle as some small creature was alerted to him, or he’d see a cat’s eyes glint in the light. He reached a small pond, and slowed down to cross it, the wooden bridge creaking. The water was choked with duckweed, the few spots clear of it home to other plants. Something glinted, a reflection bright just a short way off. He stopped entirely and looked up, casting his eyes around to find the source of the light. 

There were two orbs, high in the sky and almost light enough to be mistaken for sunspots. Connor blinked, but they were still there, one circling the other lazily. He kept watching, ignoring how, with the intense focus, his vision tunneled and centred on them, leaving imprints in his eyes. 

He followed them as they zipped to the right, and then back to the left in a motion too quick to be aircraft. And then they twirled to the right and got smaller - or further away - fading quickly to a pinprick and then to nothing, the only trace of their existence the image behind Connor’s eyelids. What the fuck. 

He turned and continued his jog. Maybe he’d imagined that. Or maybe it was a kite - that would make sense, right? A child with a kite that reflected the sun. And the sun had gone in, reducing that reflection to nothing. He settled on that explanation in his head, though even as he did he knew he didn’t believe himself. 

He returned to the hotel in little under an hour and a half, the sun risen now, the air not any warmer though than when he left. Anderson was still asleep, still snoring. Connor reminded himself to make a remark about a CPap machine. 

He grabbed his towel, a vest, and a pair of boxers, and closed the bathroom door quietly behind him as he went in, although he would place bets that nothing short of an earthquake would wake Anderson up before his alarm. 

The shower was hot and pleasant, pressure drumming into his muscles and rinsing away the sweat he’d worked up during his run. He tried not to think about the lights he'd seen. Or the body from yesterday. He tried to allow himself a moment of thought that wasn't about the case. And, naturally, his mind slipped towards Anderson. 

Connor couldn't say he liked Anderson. He could say that he  _ hated  _ Anderson, but that felt a strong word even for the scenario they were in. After all, it wasn't Anderson's fault Connor had been stuck with him, and it probably wasn't his fault he was so, ah, confused about reality. Grief could do things like that, Connor supposed. However, it  _ was  _ Anderson’s fault he acted so irritatingly, that he didn’t tell Connor things relevant to the case and expected him to follow around like an obedient subordinate, when Connor was his  _ partner _ . 

Connor got out of the shower and towelled off before he could begin to stew in his annoyance. He pulled his vest and boxers on and bundled up his pyjamas (a matching set, because he was civil), leaving the bathroom more or less how he’d found it. 

Apparently Anderson's alarm had gone off while Connor was washing. He was lying how Connor had left him, the only differences that his shirt had been pulled down and that he was  _ glaring  _ at the ceiling. 

“Good morning, Agent.” Connor said dryly as he folded his pyjamas neatly onto his pillow. 

“Is it? Feels like fuckin night still to me.” Anderson’s voice was sleep rough and reverberated from the top of Connor’s head down to where his bare feet met the carpeted floor. Okay, Connor could say that there was something he certainly didn’t hate about Anderson, and it was that voice. “What time is it?”

Connor picked his watch up from the nightstand. “Nine minutes past seven.” 

“That's nighttime.” Anderson rolled over and buried his face in the pillow, his hair sticking up oddly on the back of his head. 

“It's not.” Connor sighed. “When are we going to start heading to Detroit.” 

“It's, uh, a three hour drive. 'N I scheduled the Exhumation for five in the afternoon.”

Connor tapped his toes. “That long?” 

Anderson scowled at him. “Not all of us can be up at the crack of fuckin’ dawn. Let me get two more hours of sleep 'n just go entertain yourself at the fuckin’ iHop down the street.” He pulled his sheets up and rolled over away from Connor. 

Connor had a petulant impulse to rip those blankets away and push Anderson out of his bed, but he brushed down his vest and ignored it. 

“Fine. But if you don't meet me there in two hours I'm going to leave without you.”

Anderson rolled back over, opening one of his eyes to glare. “You're not on the insurance, asshole.” 

“Do you think I care?”

“You're a  _ federal agent _ , I sure hope you do.” Anderson's eye wandered down Connor's chest. “And you should put some clothes on before you leave.” 

Connor felt the colour rise up his neck to his cheeks. He crossed his arms self consciously over his scars and looked away from Anderson. Shit. He was still in his boxers. And he wasn't packing. 

He didn’t deign to reply to Anderson's jab, and turned to grab his suit from the closet. He pulled his trousers on and flipped Anderson off before he buttoned his shirt up as well. 

“Meet me at the iHop. In two hours.” The order felt dulled by how stupid it sounded. Anderson cracked a smile, and Connor glowered and turned around. He pulled his jacket on and pocketed his tie. It was an iHop. Not like he really needed to look professional. 

He grabbed the car keys from the bowl by the door, making sure to jingle them loud enough that Anderson knew he wasn't fucking around. Which he  _ wasn't _ . Connor wasn't the type of man to give empty threats. And when his head caught up to the fact he’d be in an iHop for two hours and he didn’t want to go crazy, he also grabbed the briefcase that contained his laptop. 

Connor let the door slam shut behind him in response to Anderson’s slurred ‘have fun’. It was a satisfying sound. 

The iHop was as busy as a city iHop tends to be at seven in the morning on a weekday. There were a few people quietly eating their pancakes, and even fewer old ladies sat in pairs discussing their personal lives in voices that could be just a touch lower. Connor let a small, sleepy looking waiter seat him. He ordered his overly sweet coffee and pancakes before he pulled his laptop out of its case. In the time it took to boot up he’d been brought his drink and learned from a pair of women two tables over that one of their sons had recently joined the marines. Good on him, Connor supposed.

He started drafting his second report on Anderson. One that was to be far more detailed and to contain within it all the Bureau would need to ruin him. His fingers flitted over the keys as he described in gleeful detail how Anderson had gone against protocol again and again; the mistreatment of evidence, the disturbing of Alan Walner’s bedroom, leaving without any real statement from Tyrese. His typing halted though when he gave the reasoning for leaving Tyrese alone. Anderson had been… incredibly compassionate, Connor thought was the correct term. He wrote as much, trying to seem unbiased (which he hadn’t concerned himself in with his description of Anderson’s mistakes). It felt only fair to keep that in. 

He finished his report and his pancakes, and looked at his watch. Half an hour had passed since he’d sat down, and he sighed and hailed a waiter for a second drink, one that was decaffeinated but made up for that by being completely pumped full of sugar. Without an ethernet cable and connection, he really had nothing much else to work on. The only other files he had access to were old case files from his previous position, which were as heavily password protected as all of his work, and definitely should not be opened in a public diner. He tapped his fingers and, for want of better things to do, pulled out the crumpled leaflet on keyboard shortcuts he’d had shoved in the bottom of his bag since Reed had thrown it at him on his birthday. He should have given Anderson an hour, at most. 

To his credit, his partner arrived only an hour and a half after he’d sent Connor off. To his discredit, he made no attempts at apologising for being difficult, and ordered a large black coffee alongside his meal while sneering at Connor’s third decaf caramel latte. Connor imagined reaching across the table and throttling him, and resigned himself to the fact that today was going to be his most frustrating day so far on this case. 

“So are you going to tell me about Springs yet?” He said, speaking just as Anderson was taking a mouthful of food. Anderson glared, and chewed pointedly, waiting until he’d swallowed to answer. 

“What do you wanna know?”

“Oh I don’t know,  _ anything _ that would assist me in making sense of this?”

“Alright, I have an idea.” Anderson cut another wedge out of his stack of pancakes and chewed slowly this time. “This isn’t the place for exposition bullshit, so I’m gonna let you read through the files I put together last night while we drive. Deal?”

“You couldn’t have just given me them to look through for the past hour and a half?”

Anderson waved his fork in front of him and rolled his eyes. “I was half a-fucking-sleep when you left, sue me for not thinking of that.”

“Maybe I will.” Connor muttered under his breath, a weak comeback even as he said it. 

“Great.” Anderson said, and that was evidently that. 

The file put together the night before was thin, but each page within was absolutely smothered in Anderson’s loose cursive, annotation upon annotation on gritty, printed images and blown-ink text. It was a mess, as Connor had been expecting. He sat stoic, dissecting it as Anderson drove. The radio was on, some talk show droning quiet enough that Connor didn’t have to think to ignore it. 

Anna Springs was found mid-May of 1991, pretty much exactly four years ago, the mystery and confusion surrounding her death almost more than surrounded Walner’s. Her body had been passed between three different professionals, each giving excuses as to why they could no longer work on her, before the last seemed to pull her cause of death out of nowhere. Huh. 

He pulled out a red pen and made his own notes alongside Anderson’s, his small, block capitals far easier to read than any of the other writing on the page. He circled a note of Anderson’s that simply read ‘transmitters??’ and frowned. 

“Anderson?” 

“Yeah?”

“What did you mean by ‘transmitters’?” 

Anderson leaned into Connor’s space, keeping his hands on the wheel but not even pretending to look at the road. Connor glared into his hair, trying not to breathe too deeply the mix of old cigarette smoke and bodywash that clung to him. It was, shockingly enough, not an unpleasant smell. Anderson probably bought good smokes. Connor was slightly bitter about that.

“Oh, right. The whole, uh, feeling thing? How you felt around the body. I think it’s a neurochemical thing.” He leaned away, eyes flicking from the road to the frown forming on Connor’s face. 

“Explain.” 

“Not even a please?”

Connor made sure to roll his eyes when Anderson was looking at him. 

“Fine. Alright.” Anderson huffed. “What do you know about neurochemistry?”

“A bit. I do have a Doctorate, Anderson.”

“Right, whatever. So you know what dopamine is?”

“A neurotransmitter.”

“Gold star. Dopamine’s linked with all sorts of bullshit - key here being depression. You got low dopamine, you feel shit. Motivation drops, enjoyment drops, excetera excetera.” Anderson waved his hands to illustrate his point, taking them both off the wheel. “Now there’s ways of combating that shit, if you’re low. The end of a neuron you got a synapse, you familiar with that?”

“Yes, but humour me. I want to hear this whole theory.”

“Alright.” Anderson actually shot him a smile, another that was hard not to respond to, and infuriating in that. “Synapse is the gap between neurons, the bit that the neurotransmitters travel across. End of the neuron you have these things that hold the neurotransmitters until they’re released. And you have these reuptake pump things. Other side of the synapse you have another neuron with receptors. The neurotransmitters are released, right, and either they go bond with the receptor, or they’re snapped up by the pump and don’t pass along. Got that?”

“Yes.” Connor tilted his head. Anderson was shockingly good at this. 

“Right. So if you block the receptors, the dopamine can’t bond. Can’t pass along the impulse, and you feel like shit. I think that somehow something in the body - bodies - causes that to happen.”

“What could cause that?” 

“Spores? Something released by the bodies that, for as long as you breathe it in, fucks with your brain chemistry? Still working on the details.” 

“What kind of spores could do that? And how could someone infect the body with a fungus that we aren't able to detect? There was a full toxins report within the file you were first presented.” Connor hummed. “Are you suggesting a new, undetectable species of fungus?” 

“Yeah. Simplest terms.” 

“Less simple?” 

Anderson glanced sideways with a smirk, meeting Connor's eyes with glinting blue. “Alien.” 

Connor rolled his eyes and looked out the window, watching the world pass by as they crept closer to Detroit. He didn't feel quite the rage he had when Anderson had suggested these in the past.

When they arrived, it was raining. Fitting for an exhumation, Connor thought. The parents of the late Anna Springs were stood to the side, mother tearful and father stone faced as they watched the earth pulled up from what was meant to be her final resting place. Connor let Hank deal with them, he was proving to be the better partner at dealing with emotions. 

He stood on his own and let the rain pull the gel out of his hair, water slipping down his collar but despite its efforts not managing to get him to shiver. He found a coin in his pocket and dug it out to roll it over his fingers as the earth was pulled up in front of him. The light caught the metal as he flipped it, flashing silver every time he rolled it over his second finger.

The coffin was lifted from the ground by a pulley attached to a crane, and was placed in the back of a van to be driven discreetly to the lab. The mother's sobbing sounded louder without the hum of machinery that had accompanied the digging. Connor pulled his collar tighter against his neck and grimaced, waving Anderson over so they could follow the van and get  _ out  _ of there. 

This second drive was quieter than the first, the rain pattering against the windshield and radio droning quietly in the background, but Anderson not doing anything to pester Connor into talking, and Connor not doing anything in return. Even once they reached the lab, Anderson left Connor to his work, and went off to… do something. He wasn’t very specific.

So Connor was left with the corpse of Anna Springs, removed from its coffin and laid under a sheet on the table. He pulled on his gloves, turned on his tape recorder, pulled back the sheet, and immediately recoiled.

The body under it wasn’t human. It was a caricature of one, a cruel caricature. The limbs were long and thin, skin stretched tight over bone. The remnants of what Connor imagined had been a nice dress lay in scraps lining the bottom of the coffin, like they had been ripped off, not the first sign of decomposition on them. And Anna Springs’ head was not the head of a human being. It had distended, skull pushing upwards in an uneven, bulbous mass with a few clumps of ratty hair still clinging to it, the rest lying above the fabric of the dress. Its nose had caved inwards, no sign of cartilage, the space it had occupied now two stretched and puckered slits. Its mouth hung open in a silent scream, as long as the rest of it, teeth cracked down the sides, each one holding some kind of a pointed growth - like another set of teeth had tried to grow through them.

It wasn't real. It couldn't be real. Connor couldn't believe it. It didn’t make  _ sense _ .

The corpse should have been liquified for the most part, but it was solid as a rock, no sign of even past fluid soaked into the coffin.

The skin felt like marble and was equally as strong. The effort it took to cut through had him panting, and it  _ shouldn’t  _ have. Because he  _ should  _ have simply been able to cut the stitching from the previous autopsy, except by some means the body had grown new tissue over the sutures, something it shouldn’t have been able to do if it was dead.

He pushed away at the part of his mind that suggested that maybe it  _ hadn’t  _ been dead, because that was a thought he couldn’t bear having.

When he managed to cut through them, he sat panting, waiting for his arms to stop shaking, and for the dread and anxiety to subside. They didn't, but he pushed through.

“I've followed the original incisions with difficulty. The skin is tougher than it should be, and I was forced to use a bone saw to cut through after I managed to make a large enough incision. I'm going to begin my inspection of the internal organs now.” Keeping his voice steady, he peeled back the skin and pinned it in place when it threatened to bounce back. The inside of the corpse was coated with green ooze, and the organs were predictably no more than goo pooled in the torso. Nothing for Connor to weigh, or compare. Or do  _ shit  _ with. He didn't know what to do. He felt a dark pit in his stomach and he didn't know what to do or what was going on and he wanted to give up give up give up give up give up gi-

He was on the other side of the door before he even realised, eyes shut tight, breathing heavy, holding it shut with his weight as if he were scared of something pushing through. He tried to pull himself together, push through the feelings of  _ useless useless useless _ that were burrowing into his chest. He ended up on the floor, counting breaths as he kept his head between his knees. 

“Jesus Christ, Connor, is that you?” 

Connor looked up, blinking against the light that was suddenly so bright compared to the dark space he'd been in in his head. Anderson was stood just down the hall, holding an armful of files and folders and looking for all the world genuinely concerned.

“Are you okay? What happened?”

“I’m fine. It - I’m fine.” Connor pushed himself to his feet, looking down the hall in the opposite direction to stop the ashamed blush that came when he met Anderson’s eyes. “I was having a moment, it’s nothing.”

“It’s that body, is what it is.” Anderson huffed, voice suddenly closer. “The shit I was talking about in the car.” 

Connor turned his head, able to focus on that statement rather than the shame he felt for his weakness. “You really think that’s what’s going on here?”

Anderson shrugged. “Seems a likely enough cause to me. Correct me if I’m wrong, Connor. But you don’t seem to me the type of guy to break down in a fuckin’ hallway because of a dead body.”

“It’s not just a dead body.” Connor protested. “But - but yeah, you’re right. It was - I haven’t ever felt like that before.”

“Mmh. So I have an idea. Lets test if it  _ is  _ spores. Go down to a hardware store ‘n pick up a couple dust masks, ventilators, that type ’a shit.”

“Do you think that’ll work?”

“I think it’s better trying that than you going back in there and having another fuckin’ breakdown for no reason.” 

Connor nodded, lifting his hand to run it through his hair. Anderson caught his wrist, though, and Connor fixed him with a confused scowl.

“Get those gloves off, before you do that.” 

Oh. Shit. He pulled the surgical gloves off inside out and shouldered open the door to the lab to throw them into the trash can, holding his breath for as long as he was in the room. When he turned, he saw that Anderson had caught the door and was holding it open enough for Connor to leave, albeit that he did have to duck his head under Anderson’s arm to do so. 

“Thank you.” He murmured.

“That to me or the door?”

“You. Regretfully.” Connor rolled his eyes, the hint of a smile finding its way to his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay again! sorry for the delay! hit me up on twitter @robotwunk or tumblr (also robotwunk) to tell me off for it and to see my terrible ideas! thank you for reading and please do leave a comment!!

**Author's Note:**

> hey!! thanks for reading!! if you're interested in this please do consider following me on twitter (@robotwunk) and chatting to me abt it, i also have a hankcon discord server if you want in on that!! i really love comments and feedback! also thank u to danny for betaing this for me but if anyone sees any spelling mistakes or grammatical mistakes please let me know


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